Robopocalypse

by Daniel H. Wilson

  “Do you know what this means, Arrtrad?”

  “No, boss. Uh, not really, I mean.”

  “Nobody calls this phone, you tosser. Nobody except him. The reason we’ve run. The devil in the machine.”

  “You mean, that’s who’s calling?”

  Not a doubt in my mind.

  “Yeah, it’s Archos. There’s nobody else who’s ever traced this bloody number. My number.”

  “Does this mean he’s coming for us?”

  I look at the phone, vibrating on our small wooden dinner table. It’s surrounded by a mess of papers and pencils. All my schemes. This phone and me had a lot of fun together in the old days. Pulled a lot of capers. But now it makes me flinch to see it. Keeps me up at night, wondering what’s on the other end of it.

  There’s a scream of motors and the table lurches. A pencil rolls away, drops to the floor with a tap.

  “Damned speedboats,” says Arrtrad, grabbing the wall for support. Our houseboat sways on the wake. She’s just a little boat, about twelve yards long. Basically a wood-paneled living room floating a yard off the water. For the last couple months, I’ve been sleeping on the bed and Arrtrad on the convertible folding table, with just the potbellied stove to keep us warm.

  And watching that phone to keep me busy.

  The speedboat whines off farther down the Thames, toward the ocean. It’s probably my imagination, but it feels as if that boat came and went in a panic, fleeing something.

  Now I can feel the panic rising in me, too.

  “Unmoor us,” I whisper to Arrtrad, wincing as the phone rings again and again.

  It won’t stop ringing.

  “What?” asks Arrtrad. “We haven’t got much petrol, Lurker. Let’s answer the phone first. See what this is all about.”

  I stare at him blankly. He looks back, gulping. I know from experience that there’s nothing in my gray eyes for him to see. No emotion to latch onto. No weakness. It’s the unpredictability that makes him afraid of me.

  In a small voice, Arrtrad asks, “Shall I answer it?”

  Arrtrad picks up the mobile phone with shaky fingers. Autumn light streams in from the thin-paned windows and his thinning hair floats like a halo on his wrinkled scalp. I can’t allow this weakling to get the upper hand. I’ve got to show my crew who’s boss. Even if it’s a crew of one.

  “Give me that,” I mumble, and snatch the phone away. I answer it with one thumb, in a well-practiced motion.

  “It’s Lurker,” I growl. “And I’m coming for you, mate—”

  I’m interrupted by a recorded message. I hold the phone away from my ear. The tinny computerized female voice is easy to hear over the lapping waves outside.

  “Attention, citizen. This is a message from your local emergency alert system. This is not a test. Be advised that due to a chemical spill in central London, all citizens are asked to go inside immediately. Bring your pets with you. Close and lock all doors and windows. Shut off all ventilation systems that circulate air. Please wait for assistance, which will arrive shortly. Note that due to the nature of the accident, unmanned systems may be utilized for your rescue. Until help arrives, please monitor your radio for emergency alert system announcements. Thank you for your cooperation. Beep. Attention, citizen. This is a message—”

  Click.

  “Unmoor us now, Arrtrad.”

  “It’s a chem spill, Lurker. We should shut the windows and—”

  “Unmoor us, you sodding fuck!”

  I scream the words right into Arrtrad’s dim-witted weasel face, painting his forehead with my spittle. Out the window, London looks normal. Then I notice a thin column of smoke. Nothing big, but just hanging there, out of place. Sinister.

  When I turn around, Arrtrad is wiping his forehead and muttering, but he is walking toward the flimsy front door of the houseboat as he goddamn well should be. Our shoddy wharf is old and rotten and has been here forever. We’re tied to it tight in three places and if we don’t get untied, we won’t be going anywhere.

  And on this particular afternoon, I happen to be in quite a hurry to be off. See, I’m near to fairly certain that this is the end of days. It’s the sodding apocalypse and I’m teamed with the village idiot and shackled tight to a waterlogged pile of rot.

  I’ve never even started the houseboat engine before.

  The key is dangling in the ignition. I walk to the nav station at the front of the room. I prop open the front window and the smell of muddy water wafts in. For a moment, I rest my sweaty palms on the fake wood of the steering wheel. Then without looking I reach down and turn the key, quick.

  Ka-rowr.

  The engine turns over and sputters into life. First try. Through the back window, I see a haze of bluish smoke billow up. Arrtrad is crouched on the right side of the boat, alongside the dock, getting the second mooring rope untied. Starboard, I suppose the boating types call it.

  “Memento Mori,” calls Arrtrad between pants. “That’s a funny name to give a boat. What’s it mean?”

  I ignore him. In the distance over Arrtrad’s bald spot something has just caught my eye: a silver car.

  The car looks normal enough, but somehow it’s moving too steadily for my taste. The car wheels down the road that leads to our wharf as if its steering were locked in place. Is it a coincidence that the car is aimed toward our dock and us at the end of it?

  “Faster,” I shout, rattling the window with my fist.

  Arrtrad stands up, hands on his hips. His face is red and sweaty. “They’ve been tied a long time, all right? It’s going to take more than a—”

  At near full speed, the silver car hops a curb at the end of the street and leaps into the dockside car park. There is a faint crunch of the auto’s undercarriage bottoming out. Something is definitely wrong.

  “Just go! GO!”

  Finally, the facade has cracked. My panic shines through like radiation. Confused, Arrtrad fairly lopes along the side of the boat. Near the back end, he drops to his knees and starts working on the last decaying mooring rope.

  To my left is open river. To my right is a crumbling pile of warped wood and two tons of speeding metal careening toward me at top speed. If I don’t move this boat in the next few seconds, I’m going to have a car parked on top of it.

  I watch the auto bounce through the immense car park. My head feels stuffed with cotton. The houseboat motor throbs and my hands have gone numb with the vibration of the wheel. My heart pounds in my chest.

  Something occurs to me.

  I snatch my mobile phone off the table, crack the SIM card out of it, and chuck the rest into the water. It makes a small plop. I can feel a bull’s-eye slide off my back.

  The top of Arrtrad’s head bobs in and out of view as he unwinds the last rope. He doesn’t see the silver auto streaking across the deserted car park, sending trash fluttering into the air. It hasn’t changed direction by an inch. The plastic bumper scrapes concrete and then flies completely off as the car bounces over a curb and onto the wooden dock.

  My mobile phone is gone but it’s already too late. The devil has found me.

  Now I can hear the thrumming of tires over the last fifty yards of rotten wood. Arrtrad’s head rises up, concerned. He’s hunched on the side of the boat, hands covered in slime from the ancient rope.

  “Don’t look, just go!” I shout at Arrtrad.

  I grab the clutch lever. With one thumb, I pop the houseboat out of neutral and into reverse. Ready to move. No throttle though. Not yet.

  Forty yards.

  I could jump off the boat. But where will I go? My food is here. My water. My village idiot.

  Thirty yards.

  It’s the end of the world, mate.

  Twenty yards.

  Hell with it. Untied or not, I slam the throttle and we lurch backward. Arrtrad shouts something incoherent. I hear another pencil tap to the ground, followed by dishes and papers and a coffee mug. The neat pile of wood next to the potbellied stove collapses.


  Ten yards.

  The engines thunder. Sunlight flashes from the scarred silver missile as it catapults off the end of the dock. The auto soars through empty space, missing the front of the houseboat by a few feet. It crashes into the water and sends up a white spray that comes through the open window and slaps me in the bloody face.

  It’s over.

  I throttle down but leave the boat in reverse, then hurry to the front deck. The prow, they say. Ashen-faced, Arrtrad joins me. We watch the car together, trawling slowly in reverse, away from the end of the world.

  The silver car is half-submerged and sinking fast. In the front seat, a man is slumped over the wheel. The windshield bears a crimson spiderweb of cracks where his face must have hit on impact. A woman with long hair is flopped next to him in the passenger seat.

  And then, there’s the last thing that I see. That last thing that I never wanted to see. Didn’t ask to see.

  In the backseat window. Two pale little palms, pressed hard against the tinted glass. Pale as linen. Pushing.

  Pushing so hard.

  And the silver car slips under.

  Arrtrad drops to his knees.

  “No,” he shouts. “No!”

  The gawky man puts his face in his hands. His whole body convulses with sobs. Snot and tears pour out of his birdlike face.

  I retreat into the doorway of the cabin. The doorframe gives me support. I don’t know how I feel, only that I feel different. Changed, somehow.

  I notice it’s getting dark outside, now. Smoke is rising from the city. A practical thought comes to me. We’ve got to get out of here before something worse comes.

  Arrtrad speaks to me through sobs. He grabs me by the arm and his hands are wet with tears and river water and muck from the ropes. “Did you know this would happen?”

  “Stop crying,” I snap.

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell nobody? What about your mum?”

  “What about her?”

  “You didn’t tell your mum?”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “She’s not fine. Nothing is fine. You’re only seventeen. But I’ve got kids. Two kids. And they could be hurt.”

  “Why haven’t I ever seen ’em?”

  “They’re with my ex. But I coulda warned them. I coulda told them what was coming. People are dead. Dead, Lurker. That was a family. It was a fucking child in that car. Just a wee baby. My god. What’s the matter with you, mate?”

  “Nothing’s the matter. Stop your crying, now. It’s all part of the plan, see? If you had a brain you’d understand. But you don’t. So you listen to me.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Listen to me and we’ll be fine. We’re going to help those people. We’re going to find your kids.”

  “That’s impossible—”

  Now, I stop him cold. I’m starting to feel a bit angry. A bit of my old fire is returning to replace the numbness. “What have I told you about saying that?”

  “I’m sorry, Lurker.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.”

  “But how will we do those things? How can we find my kids?”

  “We survived for a reason, Arrtrad. This monster. This thing. It’s played its hand, see? It’s using the machines to hurt people. But we’re savvy now. We can help. We’ll save all those poor sheep out there. We’ll save them and they’ll thank us for it. They’ll worship us for it. Me and you. We’re coming out on top. It’s all in the plan, mate.”

  Arrtrad looks away. It’s plain that he doesn’t believe a word of it. Looks like he might have something to say.

  “What? Go on, then,” I say.

  “Well, pardon me. But you never seemed the helping type, Lurker. Don’t get me wrong—”

  And that’s just it, isn’t it? I’ve never thought much of other people. Or thought about them much at all. But those pale palms against the window. I can’t stop thinking of them. I have a feeling they will be with me for a long time.

  “Yeah, I know that,” I say. “But you’ve not seen my forgiving nature. It’s all in the plan, Arrtrad. You have to trust. You’ll see, yeah? We’ve survived. It had to have been for a reason. We have a purpose now, you and me. It’s us against that thing. And we’re going to get revenge. So stand up and join the fight.”

  I reach my hand out to Arrtrad.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  He still doesn’t fully believe me. But I’m starting to believe myself. I take his hand in mine and haul Arrtrad to his feet.

  “Yeah, mate. Picture this. It’s me and you against the devil himself. To the death. All the way to the very end. And someday, we’ll be in the history books for it. Guaranteed.”

  This event appeared to represent a turning point in Lurker’s life. As the New War began in earnest, it seems that he left all childish things behind him and started behaving as a member of the human race. In further records, Lurker’s arrogance and vanity remain the same. But his breathtaking selfishness seems to have disappeared along with the silver car.

  —CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

  8. HERO MATERIAL

  Dude, let the police deal with this shit.

  CORMAC “BRIGHT BOY” WALLACE

  ZERO HOUR

  This account is composed of a series of patched-together camera and satellite feeds, roughly tracking the GPS coordinates provided by the phone I owned at Zero Hour. Since my brother and I are the subjects of this surveillance, I have chosen to annotate with my own recollections. At the time, of course, we had no idea that we were being watched.

  —CORMAC WALLACE, MIL#GHA217

  Shit, man. Here it is, the day before Thanksgiving. The day it all happened. My life up until now was never that great, but at least I wasn’t being hunted. I never had to jump at shadows, wondering whether some metal bug was about to try and blind me, sever one of my limbs, or infect me like a parasite.

  Relative to that, my life before Zero Hour was perfection.

  I’m in Boston and it’s as cold as a bastard. The wind is cutting my ears like razor blades and I’m chasing my brother through the Downtown Crossing outdoor shopping pavilion. Jack is three years older than me and as usual he’s trying to do the right thing. But I won’t listen to him.

  Our dad died last summer. Me and Jack flew out West and buried him. And that was that. We left our stepmom alone in California with a lot of tear-streaked makeup and everything Dad owned.

  Well, pretty much everything.

  Since then, I’ve been sleeping on Jack’s couch. Mooching, I’ll admit it. In another few days, I’m flying to Estonia on a photojournalist gig for Nat Geo. From there, I’ll try to book my next gig straight, so that I don’t have to come home.

  In about five minutes, the whole fucking world is going to go bat-shit insane. But I don’t know that, I’m just trying to catch Jack and calm him down and get him to be cool.

  I grab Jack’s arm right before we reach the wide, open-air tunnel that runs under the street and across to the shopping pavilion. Jack turns around and without hesitation the jerk punches me in the mouth. My right upper canine cuts a nice little hole in my bottom lip. His fists are still up, but I just touch my lip with my finger; it comes away bloody.

  “I thought it was never in the face, you fucker,” I say, panting clouds.

  “You made me do it, man. I tried to run,” he says.

  I know this already. It’s how he’s always been. Still, I’m kind of stunned. He’s never hit me in the face before.

  This must have been a bigger fuckup than I thought.

  But Jack already has that “I’m sorry” look creeping onto his face. His bright blue eyes are trained on my mouth, calculating how bad he hurt me. He smirks and looks away. Not that bad, I guess.

  I lick the blood off my lip.

  “Look, Dad left it to me. I’m broke. There was no other choice. I had to sell it to get to Estonia and make some money. See how that works?”

  My dad gave me a special bayonet from World War II. I sold it. I was wrong and
I know it, but somehow I can’t admit this to Jack, my perfect brother. He’s a damn Boston firefighter and in the National Guard. Talk about hero material.

  “It belonged to the family, Cormac,” he says. “Pappy risked his life for it. It was a part of our heritage. And you pawned it for a few hundred bucks.”

  He stops and takes a breath.

  “Okay, this is pissing me off. I can’t even talk to you right now or I’m going to knock you out.”

  Jack stalks away, angry. When the sand-colored walking land mine appears at the end of the tunnel, he reacts instantly.

  “Everybody look out! Out of the tunnel. Bomb!” he bellows. People respond immediately to the authority in his voice. Even me. A few dozen flatten themselves against the wall as the six-legged device tap, taps slowly past them over the paving stones. The rest of the people flood out of the tunnel in a controlled panic.

  Jack walks to the middle of the tunnel, a lone gunfighter. He draws a Glock .45 from a holster under his jacket. He clasps the gun in two hands, keeps it pointed at the ground. Hesitantly, I step out behind him. “You have a gun?” I whisper.

  “A lot of us in the guard do,” says Jack. “Listen, stay far away from that scuttle mine. It can move a lot faster than it’s going now.”

  “Scuttle mine?”

  Jack’s eyes never leave the shoebox-sized machine coming down the middle of the tunnel. United States military ordnance. Its six legs move one by one in sharp mechanical jerks. Some kind of laser on its back paints a red circle on the ground around it.

  “What’s it doing here, Jack?”

  “I don’t know. It must have come from the National Guard armory. It’s stuck in diagnostic mode. That red circle is there to let a demo man set the trigger range. Go call nine one one.”

  Before I can get out my cell phone, the machine stops. It leans back on four legs and raises its front two legs into the air. It looks like an angry crab.